Amnesia at 221B
by kazoquel4
Summary: When a blow to the back of the head wipes Sherlock's memory, his friends have to do whatever they can to get him to remember who he is. But will they ever convince the detective of his real identity? Non-slash.
1. Chapter 1

The case had started out normal enough.

Well, as normal as any case with Sherlock Holmes could get. Lestrade had turned to him and John when police efforts to locate a smuggling ring came up short.

Sherlock was, of course, grateful for the case to distract him. But it was an embarrassingly easy one, according to him. A couple hours traipsing around London in the drizzling weather and occasionally taking short vacations to his mind palace had eventually led him to the only solution possible.

And now, of course, he had dragged John out of the cozy flat at nine o'clock in the evening to go gate-crash a smuggling ring. And to make matters worse, he refused to wait for the police. He claimed they were 'too slow'.

"It will only take them ten minutes, Sherlock!" John shouted, panting as he ran behind his best friend.

"Too long!" Sherlock called over his shoulder, quickly turning a corner. His black trench coat fluttered behind him in the cold evening air, making him look graceful even as he splashed through the dirty puddles lining the ground. John glared at him. _He_ probably looked like an idiot, running around in a pair of nice slacks and his favorite jumper. Figures that Sherlock had gotten them a case when he was _supposed _to be going on a date with Mary.

Two minutes later they reached an old, out of the way warehouse. Sherlock stopped by the front door, frowning at the woodwork. John ambled up behind him, breathing heavily and clutching a stitch in his side.

"Could you… slow down?" he panted.

"I've stopped," Sherlock said, pressing his ear up against the wood and listening for a moment. "Shh."

John tried to keep his rasping breathing as quiet as possible, which was difficult. Even with Sherlock's multiple shortcuts, he was positive they had run at least a mile in five minutes. It's lucky that he had so much experience running around after Sherlock; otherwise, he would have probably collapsed halfway through.

"Sherlock-" he tried to say.

"_Shh_!" Sherlock hissed at him. Moving silently, he gently pulled open the door, going slowly so it didn't creak.

It was dark inside; the windows had all been covered. All in all, it looked like a very eerie place, and John didn't much fancy the prospect of going inside without any police support whatsoever.

"Sherlock, just wait for the police!" he whispered.

"It could be too late then," Sherlock responded, already creeping instead. "Are you coming?"

John closed his eyes temporarily. Oh, how he wished he could say no. But he couldn't very well let Sherlock go in alone.

"I'm coming," he responded, following him into the warehouse.

It was just as dark inside as it had seemed from the outside. The only light came from a single window, the only one that had been left uncovered. As far as John could tell, there was no furniture or anything else to tell it was anything less than what it appeared to be: an abandoned warehouse. All he had to go on was Sherlock's word that it was something much more than that. And, frankly, Sherlock's word was enough.

"They should be around here somewhere," Sherlock muttered, going off to the right.

"Yes, a gang of dangerous criminals should be around here somewhere," John said sarcastically, turning the other way. "Let's go find them. Maybe ask them out for a cup of tea and some biscuits. I'm sure that will  
go over just fine."

"Your sarcastic comments are unneeded, John," Sherlock called over.

John just rolled his eyes, although he knew, in the dark, Sherlock couldn't see him.

"There's got to be a light switch," John said, reaching the wall. He ran his fingers along the wood, feeling for something that could be a switch. "They can't just conduct all their meetings or whatever it is they do in the pitch black…"

In the dead silence, John clearly heard something whistling through the ears, following by a quiet 'oof'. Immediately on edge, he whirled around, pressing his back against the wall and bracing himself for a fight.

"Sherlock?" he called.

No response. The complete silence that had descended once again over the warehouse made John's ears ring. He was suddenly overcome by a wave of foreboding, and very slowly slid his way along the wall.

He had the feeling that something very bad was happening, and he didn't want to open his mouth again.

_Lestrade should be here any minute, _he thought to himself. _Why wasn't he here already?_

He kept his eyes firmly fixed on the small square of light in the center of the room. If he was going to see anyone, it would be when they passed through there. He wasn't sure if he wanted anyone to appear; if it was Sherlock, he'd be pleased, albeit a little annoyed for not answering. If it were anyone else… well, John would cross that bridge when he got to it.

John got his results a few seconds later. A silhouette passed through the light that was definitely _not _Sherlock. It was too stocky, and the light gleamed off a bald head. Besides, this man swung a large metal pipe in his hand.

John pressed a hand to his mouth, trying to keep his breathing silent. His eyes darted over to the door, which was on the other side of the room. If he made a break for it… but what about Sherlock? Something had obviously happened to him. At any rate, John had to get to the police. He didn't like the chances of him up against that man, especially if there were others waiting in the shadows.

Taking a deep breath, John started sprinting across the room. Behind him, he heard someone else start running as well, chasing him. The stitch in his side flared again. He hadn't yet recuperated from his run only ten minutes ago. But he pushed through it, sprinting as fast as he could.

When he reached the door, he flung it open and found himself facing-

"Greg?"

"John?" the detective inspector asked, looking shocked. "Where's Sherlock?"

Panic swooped in again. "I don't know," John said, looking over his shoulder. "We split up, and I heard something, and then there was this man walking around with a pipe-"

"Calm down, John," Lestrade ordered. Turning around, he called, "Move in!"

John stepped back to let almost half the police force flood into the warehouse.

"We've got the place surrounded," Lestrade explained. "We'll have this wrapped up in a few minutes. I'm sure Sherlock's fine," he added when he saw John's worried expression.

John frowned grimly. "I'm going in to look for him," he said abruptly, turning around and hurrying back inside. He ignored Lestrade's shouts, telling him to come back.

Flashlights were being flashed everywhere as the police searched. They had already caught the man John had seen; he was being held down by three officers, and still struggling. The metal pipe had fallen to the floor beside him. Sherlock was still nowhere to be seen.

"Found the light switch!" someone shouted from the other side of the room.

Suddenly, the warehouse was illuminated, a dozen bulbs overhead flickering to life. John blinked, shielding his eyes from the sudden glare, and hurriedly squinted around.

When he saw the body, his blood ran cold.

"Sherlock!" he gasped, sprinting across the room to drop to his knees beside the motionless detective.

Sherlock's eyes were shut, and he was a few shades paler than usual. Other than that, he looked as though he could be asleep. John couldn't see any immediate wounds; certainly there was no blood. Still, his heart was thumping wildly in his chest, and his fingers shook as he felt Sherlock's pulse.

It was there, and steady. Nothing wrong with his breathing. Frowning, John gently shook Sherlock's shoulder, wondering if he had just taken a fall and passed out. It had happened before.

"Sherlock?"

The detective's head lolled from side to side, but he didn't open his eyes. John felt his frown deepen and, following a hunch, placed a hand on Sherlock's head and wove his way through his curly hair until he reached the scalp.

"Christ!" he gasped, retracting his hands momentarily. Instead of the smooth skin he had been expecting, John had felt something wet and sticky. Looking at his hands, he felt his heart stop. His fingers were coated with Sherlock's blood.

"What's wrong with him?" Lestrade asked, crouching down next to John. He looked concerned. Donovan stood behind him, already speaking on the phone with someone.

"Yes, we need an ambulance, stat," she was saying.

"Blow to the head," John said, gingerly touching Sherlock's head again. He could feel the bump forming. "Probably with that metal pipe over there. Hard one, it seems. Possible concussion. All his vitals seem to be functioning. It doesn't look like it broke the skull, so a closed head injury."

Lestrade ran a hand over his face. "He just had to come here alone," he muttered to himself. Taking a deep breath, he got to his feet. "Donovan! When's that ambulance coming?"

"It should be here in a few minutes, sir," Donovan said, ending the phone call.

"Right," Lestrade sighed. "Listen, I'm going to go make sure everything's being wrapped up alright. I'll be right back."

John just nodded, still assessing Sherlock's damage. His chest rose steadily up and down, but otherwise he didn't move. No apparent spinal cord injuries. Nothing to suggest anything more than a concussion.

All John could do was sit back and wait until the ambulance got there.

* * *

"Yes, I'm alright, Mary. It's Sherlock. Some idiot hit him over the back of the head with a pipe."

"Is he alright?" Mary's voice was frantic, worried.

"I think so," John said, looking over his shoulder at the hospital door. Sherlock had been in there for half an hour now, and John was anxious to see the results. "They haven't told me anything yet."

"I'm coming over there right now," Mary said firmly. "Give me ten minutes."

John relaxed slightly. "Thanks, Mary," he said, grateful that his wife would be joining him.

Just as he was hanging up, the door to Sherlock's room swung open, and a doctor finally came out.

"What happened?" John asked immediately.

The doctor glanced at her clipboard. "Dr. Watson, I presume?" When John nodded, she said, "Look, I'm not going to try to feed you any of the lies most doctors tell people, especially since you're a medical man yourself. Mr. Holmes is still unconscious at the moment, and he has a nice concussion. There is no other physical damage, but we don't know what he'll be like when he wakes up. Hopefully, he'll be over the concussion quickly and on his way. It's uncertain when he will wake up; it could be in a few minutes, or days. You're free, however, to go in and sit with him if you'd like."

John swallowed, then forced a smile. "Thank you," he said, pulling open the door and slipping inside.

He stalled turning around for a moment, as though that extra five seconds would give Sherlock the time to wake up. Then, knowing he could push it off no longer, he turned around and walked over to Sherlock's bed, frowning at the state of his friend.

Sherlock was lying in the bed, still unconscious. It was interesting, seeing him like this; his dark, curly hair was a stark contrast to the white pillows and sheets. His skin, however, was so pale it almost blended in. Well, maybe John was exaggerating a bit, but he was always amused by the fact that it looked like his friend had never stepped foot outside. Lying in a hospital bed, however, the pale skin worried him.

There was a chair in the corner of the room, which John dragged over to the bedside. Settling down, he surveyed the detective. They had bandaged his head appropriately, but it hadn't been too bad of a wound to begin with. John was mostly concerned about the concussion. That must have been one heck of a blow. And that guy had to have gotten Sherlock off guard, otherwise he would have fought back, or ducked, or something.

John pressed his palms to his eyes. _Oh, Sherlock. Why couldn't you have ducked?_

Someone knocked on the door. John looked up as it creaked open, and Mary poked her head in.

"How is he?" she whispered, hurrying in and shutting the door behind her.

"You got here fast," John said, frowning.

Mary shrugged. "I bribed the taxi driver. So?" she prompted, walking over to John's side and looking down at Sherlock.

John quickly relayed what the doctor had told him to his wife. With every word her frown deepened. Looking worried, she reached down and smoothed back Sherlock's hair.

"You two need to stop getting yourself into problems like this," she said sternly.

John chuckled weakly. "I've been trying to get him to slow down since I met him."

Mary leaned over and quickly kissed him. "I'll stay with you."

"Here," John said, getting up, "you can have the chair."

"Nonsense," Mary said, marching over to the door. "I'll just get another chair."

John watched her troop out into the hallway and smiled. He knew she would get what she wanted; she had a way with words.

That, and she was just very stubborn.

* * *

Two hours later, Sherlock finally stirred.

Mary had fallen asleep in the chair next to John, and John was starting to drift off himself. The idea of his own bed was starting to sound very good when he heard a soft groan from the bed.

Immediately he was awake, watching as Sherlock shifted around on the bed. There was a pained look on his friend's face, and his eyes were only half open.

"Sherlock?" he asked.

Sherlock slowly opened his eyes all the way. The normally alert blue eyes were cloudy and confused, and his face was still screwed up in pain. He lifted a shaky hand up to his head, felt the bandages, and frowned.

"Huh?" he managed to get out, his voice croaky.

"Sherlock," John sighed, relieved. "You had us all worried."

Sherlock just stared at him, still frowning.

"What were you thinking?" John asked, suddenly angry with his friend. Now that his worry had passed, he was completely annoyed that the detective had thought it wise to go after a smuggling ring without the police. "You could have gotten yourself killed! But no, you just _had _to go on without the police, didn't you? You couldn't have waited _ten bloody minutes!_"

Sherlock opened his mouth, but John cut him off.

"No, don't try to defend yourself," John snapped. "Mary and I have been waiting for two hours for you to wake up, and I don't need you shooting off some sarcastic excuse."

Sherlock's eyebrows were furrowed. He watched silently as John ranted, not even attempting to interrupt, which should have been the first sign that something was wrong.

John sat back in his seat with a huff when he was finished, crossing his arms angrily. "_What _do you have to say for yourself?" he snapped.

Sherlock hesitated before saying something that made John's blood run cold.

"Who are you?"

* * *

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	2. Chapter 2

John stared at his friend for a few seconds, his mind completely blank.

"It's me," he said. "It's John. John Watson?"

Not even a flicker of recognition in Sherlock's eyes. He looked frightened and apprehensive, like a deer caught in headlights.

"Should that mean something to me?" he asked blankly.

John stared at him, his eyes wide. "No," he said, shaking his head. "No, it can't be…"

"Look," Sherlock said, his bright blue eyes darting from John to the door, "I don't know what I'm doing here, I don't know who you are, so please, don't hurt me."

"Sherlock, I'm not going to hurt you!" John said, raising his voice out of sheer desperation.

Next to him, Mary sat up with a start, blinking drowsily. "John?" she yawned, rubbing her eyes. "Is Sherlock- oh," she said, spotting Sherlock's open eyes. She smiled. "Thank goodness you're alright."

Sherlock's eyes widened even more. "Who's Sherlock?" he asked, looking bewildered.

The smile dripped off of Mary's face. She frowned. "_You're_ Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes." She turned to John. "Is this some kind of joke?" she demanded of her husband, well aware that the two of them liked to mess around with her and everyone else. Who knew what kind of trick Sherlock Holmes would think of?

John was still staring at Sherlock, his mouth open slightly. He slowly shook his head. "No, I- I don't think so," he stuttered. Taking a deep breath, he said calmly, "Sherlock, if this is a joke, stop it right now. It's not funny. This could be serious. Drop the act."

Sherlock looked from John to Mary, his dark eyebrows furrowed. "What act?" he asked. "Please, just- just tell me what I'm doing here, and who you are." He thought about it a moment. "While you're at it, could you tell me who I am?"

"This can't be happening," John said, getting to his feet. Sherlock jumped slightly as the chair scraped against the tile, then winced, putting a hand to his bandaged head.

"This _cannot _be happening," John repeated, pacing back and forth. "There is no way- this is a dream. That's it. I was the one that got knocked out and I'm in the hospital right now having this dream-"

"John," Mary said, getting to her feet, "John, calm down. You're scaring him."

"I'M scaring HIM?" John shouted, his panic overwhelming him. "Sherlock BLOODY Holmes doesn't remember a single BLOODY thing and I'm the one scaring HIM?"

"John!" Mary hissed as Sherlock put his head in his hands, letting out a soft moan. Returning to the bed, she asked him, "Does your head hurt?"

Sherlock nodded weakly, not lifting his head. Mary turned around and walked across the room, glaring at John as she went. "I'm getting the doctor," she stated. "Do _not _yell at him anymore, and do _not _try to force him to remember anything. This could just be temporary."

John watched her go, frowning. He knew it could be temporary. That wasn't what was bothering him.

What was bothering him was the fact that it could be permanent as well.

John breathed in and out slowly, trying to keep his heart rate down. He knew if he started panicking, he'd start yelling again. And obviously that would not be very good for Sherlock at the moment.

He turned around and looked at the bed only to find Sherlock already staring at him. His eyes were narrowed, and he looked thoughtful.

"I've got amnesia?" he asked slowly.

John slowly walked over to his bedside, keeping his movements unnecessarily slow. He wasn't sure why; he just felt very cautious around his friend, who seemed fragile without his memories. The normally imposing detective looked small in the bed without his cocky smirk and dismissive attitude. While John often complained that Sherlock was an arrogant prick, he was disturbed by the sudden change in the man.

"Yes," he said. "I'm afraid so."

Sherlock blinked, looking around the room. "I'm in the hospital with a concussion, and I've got amnesia," he mused softly to himself. "Well, this can't be very good."

The door opened again, and the doctor from before bustled in, scribbling something on her clipboard.

"Dr. Watson," she said, "I'm going to have to ask you to step outside. I need some time with Mr. Holmes. I believe your wife is in the waiting room."

"Right," John said, backing away from the bed. "Um… thanks."

The doctor simply nodded in his direction, already focused on her patient. John turned and quickly slipped into the hall. He could practically feel Sherlock's eyes on him as he shut the door behind him.

Feeling dazed, John strode through the hallway in the direction of the waiting room. He wasn't quite sure what to feel at the moment. Shock? Fear? Anger at Sherlock for landing himself in this situation in the first place? John couldn't quite decide.

"Mary," was the first thing out of his mouth when he walked into the waiting room.

Immediately his wife was there, her arms wrapped around his neck. "It's going to be fine," she said, her voice muffled. "He's going to be fine, alright?"

"Alright," John echoed.

Neither of them were satisfied with the empty promise lingering in the air.

* * *

"He is suffering from retrograde amnesia," the doctor said simply.

John shut his eyes. He had known this diagnosis was coming, but to finally hear it made him feel sick to his stomach.

"He has no memory of anything from his past and knows little about his own personality. Nothing about his family, friends, job, or past experiences have been retained. Unfortunately, there are two ways this could go: it could be a temporary case, and could last only a few hours, days, or maybe weeks."

"And the other way?" Mary asked nervously, gripping John's wrist.

The doctor hesitated. "It could be permanent," she admitted. "But these cases commonly-"

"What do we do?" John asked.

The doctor stopped, taken aback at the interruption. "Sorry?"

"What can we do to help him?" John asked, pronouncing each syllable slowly and carefully.

If the doctor was miffed at being spoken to like a three year old, she didn't comment. She was probably accustomed to dealing with the short tempers of people who's loved ones were ill.

"We'll keep him in the hospital until his concussion is healed," she said. "Then, we have some medication he can take that could help. But if you were to take him back to his home, reintroduce him to people he knows, take him to places familiar to him- that could spark some memories. But you can't give him all this information all at once. You have to be very careful about where you take him and how you handle flashbacks and other memory-returns. Especially if he has had any traumatic experiences."

John nodded slowly. "Right… sorry," he said, "but did he behave kind of… I don't know… telepathic?"

The doctor frowned. "Could you elaborate?"

"Did he know everything about your life," John explained. "Or maybe did he talk to you about different types of tobacco ash?"

"No," the doctor said, looking confused. "He was disoriented and confused, but he seemed quite normal. Why?"

John cursed inwardly. "No reason," he said casually. Glancing at the closed door, he said, "Can we-?"

"He's sleeping at the moment," the doctor explained. "He's exhausted. You can visit him when he wakes up. Until then, you're free to wait in the waiting room."

"Thank you," Mary said, giving her a small smile. Still gripping John's hand, she turned and guided him back to the waiting room and to a pair of chairs in the corner.

"We need to call Mycroft," John said, sitting down with a thump. "And Lestrade."

"Are you alright, John?" Mary asked worriedly, looking at him. "You look kind of pale."

John shook his head. "I'm fine," he said, pulling out his phone. Scrolling through his contacts, he stopped on Mycroft's name and pressed dial, holding the phone to his ear.

The phone only rang once before there was a click.

"I'm dealing with matters of the upmost importance at the moment and if this is not incredibly important I'm going to be quite angry," Mycroft's voice said coolly and smoothly without an interruption.

"Your brother's in the hospital," John said bluntly.

A moment of silence permeated the line. John waited impatiently as Mycroft put away whatever it was he was doing. The words 'brother' and 'hospital' always seemed to get his attention.

"What has he gotten himself into this time?" the older Holmes finally sighed, back on the other end.

John hesitated. "He got hit in the head. Hard," he added. "He's in the hospital with a concussion and… well, amnesia."

The line went silent again. "Amnesia?" Mycroft repeated, sounding, for once, flabbergasted.

"Amnesia," John affirmed.

Mycroft took a deep breath. "Typical," he muttered, sounding suddenly exhausted. There was another click and the line went dead.

"He'll be here in ten minutes," John said, pulling his phone away from his ear and looking through his contacts once more.

This time the phone rang for much longer before someone picked it up.

"Hello?" Lestrade's tired voice said.

"Greg? It's John."

"John!" Lestrade perked up immediately. "How's Sherlock? Sorry I haven't been over, I've been caught up at the station with those smugglers. Has he woken up yet?"

John grimaced. "Well… yes?"

"You sound doubtful," Lestrade said suspiciously. "What's wrong?"

"Something's not right," John said slowly. "In addition to a concussion, Sherlock has retrograde amnesia."

"_Amnesia_?" Lestrade exclaimed loudly. "He's got _amnesia_?"

"He can't remember anything."

Lestrade cursed loudly. "I'll be over there as soon as I can," he promised. "Are you holding up alright?"

Why did everyone keep asking if John was alright? Sherlock was the one with the problem, not him. "I'm fine. I'll see you soon, then?"

"Yeah, alright," Lestrade said heavily.

John hung up and slid his phone back into his pocket. He turned to Mary, who was sitting next to him with a sympathetic look on his face.

"How'd they take it?" she asked.

John sighed. "As expected. They were mostly just shocked. I mean, who would have thought Sherlock Holmes could get amnesia? It's just so… un-Sherlock."

Mary bit her lip. "Are you positive you're alright?" she asked again.

"Sherlock's the one with amnesia," he reminded her.

Mary looked at him sadly. "That's precisely _why _I'm worried."

* * *

Mycroft emerged from his brother's hospital room looking fatigued. He swung his umbrella distractedly, looking troubled.

He was met in the waiting room by John, Mary, and Lestrade, who had all been standing around for the past ten minutes watching the door anxiously. Mycroft stopped in front of them, heaving a sigh.

"He didn't recognize me," he said, his voice surprisingly calm. "He has no idea who he is or where he is. His deduction skills are all but gone because of his lack of memory. No memory means no stored information to base his deductions on. He's picking up on things quickly, however; he has that going for him. And I believe he found me quite annoying." He thought about it for a moment. "At least some things haven't changed."

"Can we go in and see him?" Lestrade asked.

Mycroft cast a glance at the door. "Be my guest," he said. "When he's discharged, you have my permission to take him back to Baker Street. He's probably safest there. Until then, I will try and get in touch with our parent's to let them know what's going on. They're on vacation in the Caribbean at the moment, and will not be home for several weeks." He wrinkled his nose slightly before nodding in their direction and strolling out of the hospital.

Mary and Lestrade immediately started towards the door. John lingered behind them slightly, suddenly afraid to go in. He had no desire to stare into his best friend's eyes and see a complete stranger looking back. He didn't want to have a conversation with him without Sherlock making some arrogant comment or telling him exactly what he was going to be doing that night from the state of his shoes. But at the same time, he wanted to be with him because that's what he did: he stuck by Sherlock Holmes even when the prat went and got his memories knocked out of him. And John knew he needed to help his friend.

He walked into the room a few seconds later than the other two, swinging the door shut behind him. He looked over to see Lestrade and Mary standing next to the highly suspicious looking Sherlock.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade asked cautiously.

"That's what everyone keeps calling me," Sherlock sighed. He glanced up at Lestrade. "Who are you?"

Lestrade looked hurt for a moment, but quickly replaced it with a smile. John realized this must be difficult for Lestrade. He had known Sherlock for so long, and even though he pretended that he was as annoyed by the detective as everyone, John knew he cared deeply about him.

"Sorry," Lestrade said, "you don't know me, do you?" Sticking his hand out, he introduced himself. "Greg Lestrade."

"Nice to meet you, Greg," Sherlock said, giving him a quick smile.

Yup. This was getting strange.

"I'm Mary," Mary said, "Mary Watson. And this is… this is John."

"John Watson," Sherlock recalled. He met John's eyes, and for a moment they stared at each other. "It's nice to see you when you're not yelling."

"Sorry about that," John said, walking closer to the bed. "I was a bit upset. Still am, actually. You see, you and I were…_ are_… friends. Pretty good friends."

"Really?" Sherlock asked. He nodded slightly to himself. "Alright. Pleasure to make your acquaintance, John Watson."

John got a lump in his throat. "Likewise."

"How do you feel?" asked Lestrade.

Sherlock shrugged. "As good as one can feel with a concussion and a totally blank memory." He lightly touched his bandages, wincing slightly. "Remind me again how I got here?"

"You and I were searching an abandoned warehouse for members of a smuggling ring when some bloke hit you over the back of the head with a pipe," John said without thinking.

Sherlock's eyes widened. "Am I part of the police?" he asked, confused.

"No," Lestrade said. "I'm the Detective Inspector for Scotland Yard. You come in and help on cases when we need your help."

Sherlock frowned. "Why would you need my help?"

Lestrade snorted. Mary shot him a reprimanding look. "You're very… clever," she said carefully.

"Clever enough to be asked to help on cases by Scotland Yard?" Sherlock asked dryly.

"Yes," the three of them said simultaneously.

Sherlock blinked. "Oh," he said. "Interesting."

"You don't happen to feel clever at the moment, do you?" John asked carefully.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Are you insinuating that I'm not clever?" he asked, affronted.

"No," John said hurriedly, "it's just… you're normally… well, we won't get into that at the moment. You must have other questions."

Sherlock eyed John for another moment. "Yes," he said. "What do I do? I mean, what's my job?"

"You're a consulting detective," Lestrade said. "Only one in the world, you made up the job."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "What's a consulting detective?"

"When the police are out of your depth- which is always," John said with a slight smile, "they consult you." He glanced at Lestrade, who was shooting him a grumpy look. "Sorry, Greg."

Sherlock looked amused. "The police don't consult amateurs," he said matter-of-factly.

John's smile slipped off his face. He cleared his throat. "No," he said quietly. "They don't."

Sherlock looked at John, puzzled by his sudden change in mood. What he couldn't know- or couldn't remember, is probably the better term- was that John was remembering that taxi ride, years ago, when Sherlock had first demonstrated his deduction abilities. That smug look the detective had worn, the cocky glint in his eyes- it had excited John, who had spent months wandering around London without anyone interesting to talk to.

_The police don't consult amateurs, _Sherlock had said.

Someone knocked on the door. A nurse poked her head in. "Five o'clock, visiting hours are over," she said.

"We'll be out in a moment," Mary said.

When the door was shut again, Lestrade turned to Sherlock. "I'll be seeing you soon, mate," he said. "Get some rest. You'll have your memory back in no time."

"Thanks, Greg."

Lestrade turned away from Sherlock, looking pleased. "It's kind of nice having him remember my name," he muttered to John on the way out.

"Tell the nurses if you feel any discomfort," Mary ordered. "We'll be back to see you tomorrow."

Sherlock smiled slightly. "I will, Mary," he said. "Thank you."

Mary smiled quietly before glancing at John. "I'll give you a moment," she murmured, following Lestrade out the door.

John shoved his hands in his pockets awkwardly. Sherlock stared at him with those disconcerting blue eyes, an almost familiar calculating expression on his face. Now that he had woken up a bit more, John could almost pretend this was the Sherlock he had become best friends with years ago.

Almost.

"I expect I'll be seeing you quite a bit, John Watson," Sherlock said.

"You would be correct," John said. "I would like to see your memories back as soon as possible."

Sherlock sighed, leaning back against his pillows. "You and me both," he said. Nodding at the door, he said, "You'd better be going before the nurses start barging in here. They seem pretty serious about visiting hours."

"Don't I know it," John chuckled. Walking across the room, he opened the door, then stopped. Turning back, he said, "Goodnight, Sherlock."

"Goodnight, John."

**I'm not even close to a doctor, so all I can do is hope the research I did is correct. If it's not spot on, please humor me. Thank you!**

**Read and Review**


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